


One Step Forward (Two Steps Back)

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination, Cannibalism, Execution, Gen, Murder, background Dratchet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Deadlock figures out exactly what kind of monster Deathsaurus is...and isn't.Stand-alone one-shot not tied to any other fic continuity.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71





	One Step Forward (Two Steps Back)

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't set in any particular fic continuity, but I will say that my concept of how Deathsaurus "works" is going to be the same across all of them.

One Step Forward (Two Steps Back) 

_City-State of Tesarus_

_2.3 million years since the beginning of the war_

__

Deadlock took a deep breath and lined up the crosshairs with his target’s head. 

He stood on a flat rooftop almost a klick away, his form hidden in the shadows of a pair of coolant towers. He held the sniper rifle steady in his hands. Deadlock closed his vents, knowing that even an inhalation could alter the bullet’s trajectory. 

One optic peered through the rifle’s scope. The other watched the entire area ahead of him. His finger tightened on the trigger until he felt resistance. 

Most snipers operated in teams—one spotter, one triggermech. Deadlock did not play well with others. Investing in an upgrade that would allow his optics to operate independently of one another, and his brain to parse both streams of information simultaneously, had more than paid for itself—no more splitting his bounties with a spotter. Avoiding the irritation of an unwelcome partner was a bonus that Deadlock thoroughly enjoyed. 

The street was almost empty this time of evening. The target was about to walk past the dark mouth of an alley. There were no pedestrians close enough to interfere with the shot. Deadlock could see and comprehend all of that data without lifting his gaze from the scope. 

It was his favourite way to kill. He didn’t understand the appeal of a close-up fight, nor did he have any interest in the kind of honour that gave a target a chance to retaliate. He got no pleasure from seeing the terror in his target’s optics, and actively despised the feeling of someone else’s energon coating his frame. Sniping meant clean hands and one fewer death to go before the end of the war. 

Not all of those deaths would be Autobots. 

Tonight’s target was a Decepticon—allegedly. Deadlock did not think that someone who sold out his fellows to the Autobots in exchange for pay was worth calling a Decepticon. 

This mechanism was a Decepticon in name only, and he was on his way to the Autobots right now. One last big mission for one final payout, and a ticket to Kilair on the Outer Rim. 

But Soundwave had found out his duplicity, and Megatron had put out an order to all available Decepticons—find him, kill him, and receive a reward. 

Deadlock didn’t care about the reward so much. He already had plenty of shanix sitting in the bank. He’d never had much money in his younger days, and now that he did, he had no idea what to spend it on. The Decepticon military provided him fuel, weapons, and a place to stay as a matter of course. The money, he held in reserve until such time as he might need it. 

He’d take the shanix, but what Deadlock cared about was shutting some mouths. Starscream’s and Tarn’s, primarily. 

Starscream and Tarn had always been envious of the attention that Megatron gave him. They hated Deadlock almost as much as they hated each other. Deadlock had never cared about that, but lately their hate had led them into little schemes, and Deadlock had no interest in getting dragged into the sort of stupid plots that always undermined the Decepticons when they needed unity to win this war. Didn’t the other Decepticons also want a better world? It seemed to Deadlock that all Starscream and Tarn and their ilk wanted was to make themselves feel important, at everyone else’s expense. 

Lately, Starscream had been whining to Megatron about Deadlock’s official status as an independent agent. He thought Deadlock should be put under someone else’s command—Turmoil’s, perhaps. 

When Deadlock made this kill he would illustrate his value as an independent agent. 

Tarn, on the other hand, was starting to raise questions about Deadlock’s loyalty. Deadlock was sure that the leader of the DJD was the source of the nasty rumours circulating about him—rumours questioning his faithfulness to Megatron or his devotion to the Cause. 

Megatron would dismiss those stupid rumours when he saw Deadlock bring down this traitor. 

Starscream wanted Deadlock controlled and humiliated. Tarn wanted Deadlock dead and out of his way. Deadlock just wanted the both of them to leave him the frag alone. The best way to do that was to make it more annoying for them to pursue him than to let him be. And the best way to do that was to make sure Megatron thought of him for all the right reasons. 

The target had been difficult to track down. The Autobots had given their informant as much cover as they could. But tonight, thanks to Deadlock’s skill and hard work, the target had run out of luck. 

Deadlock squeezed the trigger with surprising gentleness. 

An armour-piercing slug exploded in the target’s brain. 

And then, so fast that Deadlock barely saw it, something reached out from the alley, grabbed the target’s leg, and yanked him away into the darkness. Only a few bolts and a small splatter of energon gave any hint that the target had been there at all. 

Deadlock swiftly clipped the sniper rifle to his back and sprinted to the edge of the roof. He saw a ladder leading down, but Deadlock didn’t have time for that. He jumped, legs kicking, and landed on an adjacent rooftop. There was a light pole next to this building. Deadlock could slide down that pole faster than he could climb down ladders or stairs, so he took advantage of the fast way down. Right before he touched the ground, he changed shape and sped towards the alley on four wheels. From there he could track whoever it was who had been arrogant enough to try to steal his kill.   
They would probably object. Deadlock didn’t care. He had a gun full of charges on each hip and a certainty that he could take out a whole group of opponents. The Autobots called him one of the top ten worst Decepticons for _reasons_. 

If you didn’t count Megatron, Deadlock was in the top five. Starscream was not. Yet another thing for the Seeker to be jealous about, even though being ranked alongside Agonizer and Heretech and Trannis was nothing to be ashamed of. 

No, Deadlock didn’t need the money, but he _did_ want to keep Starscream and Tarn properly humble. That would be worth a few more kills. And Deadlock suffered fewer fools when the rest of the Decepticons were afraid of him. Some casualties now would ensure that the Decepticons _stayed_ afraid of him. 

Just before he reached the alley, Deadlock changed back, allowing his momentum to carry him towards the gaping hole between the buildings. He drew his guns in mid air as he flew towards the mouth of the alley. 

Then his comm chimed with an incoming message. _Deadlock. I’m not stealing your bounty._

Deadlock had just enough time to check the author of the message. Huh. Interesting. 

He landed neatly in the middle of the ally’s mouth, both guns pointed into the gloom. He trusted the sender of the message enough not to immediately open fire. He didn’t trust the sender enough to put his weapons away. 

All that Deadlock saw in front of him was a garbage skip, a few scattered pallets, and some litter. The alley finished in a dead end at the other side of the building. There was, however, another alley adjoining this one in a T-junction. A smear of pink energon traced a path where a corpse had been dragged into cover. 

Deadlock crept forward cautiously and activated his own comm. _You’re so sure it was me._

A reply arrived as he pressed himself against the wall next to the side alley. _You should attack from downwind._

From here, Deadlock could hear an unpleasant crunching and slurping. 

Deadlock rounded the corner, guns still raised. “Not everybody has your sense of smell,” Deadlock said. 

Deathsaurus lifted his head from the corpse. His beak was stained pink with energon. Scattered drops of energon and oil dripped from the spines on his chin. He regarded Deadlock, curled his tail around his forelegs and chewed thoughtfully. 

The traitor’s chest had been cracked neatly in two, as though it were a boxnut and someone wanted the crystal inside. Deathsaurus had clearly taken several large bites already. The great beast swallowed, and smoke rose from his nostrils as the smelter in his belly melted down its newest load. 

_Deathsaurus_ seemed a ridiculous name until you met the mech and realized that he was exactly as advertised. 

“Their loss,” Deathsaurus replied mildly. He nodded to the side of the alley. “There’s your evidence so you can prove your kill to Megatron.” 

Deadlock saw the traitor’s head, neatly removed. All the damage appeared to have come from Deadlock’s bullet. A small entry wound on the left temple; a large exit wound on the right. The neck had been severed in a single clean stroke stroke. Next to the decapitated head lay a puddle of pink energon and, inside it, a darkened spark chamber. 

Off to a side there was another pink pool. “Who gets the T-cog?” 

“Tarn, if you’d like to be gracious. Or obnoxious.” Deathsaurus ripped out another mouthful with surprising delicacy. He seemed utterly unconcerned with Deadlock’s guns. 

He also seemed far too busy to be lining up an attack. Deadlock holstered his weapons. “And what do _you_ get?” 

“Dinner.” 

Deadlock was not so sure that a meal was sufficient reward. “Didn’t know you ate carrion.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “It’s fresh.” 

It was no secret among the Conclave that Deathsaurus was a cannibal. The rest of High Command found his habits disgusting but also considered them to be his own business. After all, it wasn’t as though Deathsaurus was alone in such proclivities. In the Decepticon ranks, there was Helex, and all of the Terrorcons and Apeface and… 

Honestly, cannibals were only one of several flavours of homicidal maniacs that gravitated towards the Decepticons. Deadlock noted that people ended up on the margins of society for many reasons. Some of them were addicts, some of them were sick physically or mentally, many of them were simply poor and unlucky. But there were also those whose appetites caused the wider society to reject them. And there were those who came down to Rodion or Nyon or other such places because it was easier to prey on the kind of people that nobody missed. At least, nobody who _counted_. 

There were also monsters with enough self-control to get awarded an Enforcer’s badge. Cloaked in the armour of authority, they chose their targets from the same pool as the violent criminals. 

Megatron had decided to welcome the predators and put them to use. They were weapons that could be turned against the Autobots, so long as they had the discipline to direct their monstrous urges. The threat of the DJD typically kept them in line, and if they broke the rules, Tarn’s crew cleaned up the mess. 

Deadlock hated the sadists in the Decepticon military. Too many of his friends and acquantainces in the Dead End had wound up victimized by people like that. Megatron might find them useful, and so Deadlock would let them be, but Deadlock didn’t have to like them. 

So Deathsaurus was just one monster among many, but as Deadlock watched the beast feed, a curious notion came into his mind. Deathsaurus’s dietary habits might be disgusting, but he appeared neither homicidal nor maniacal at this moment. Furthermore, Deadlock did not think that a former Empty had much room to talk about Deathsaurus’s meal. In fact, the only difference between himself and Deathsaurus was that Deadlock considered harvesting fuel from the dead as a last resort rather than a preference. 

But Deadlock was not so sure he wanted to be polite to a natural predator. 

“Is it any good when you don’t kill it yourself?” Deadlock asked snidely. 

“It’s really more about how it dies,” Deathsaurus said thoughtfully. “Most of the prey I eat is on the cool side. Sharp is a nicer taste but more ethically dubious, so I usually just get the little burst of spice at the end.” 

Deadlock raised an optic ridge. “What makes it taste sharp?” 

“Fear.” Deathsaurus licked his beak. “Conversely I prefer to avoid smokey. What it tastes like when it dies in agony.” 

“And cool is when the bastard never knows what hit him.” 

“This, for example, is ice-cold. An impressive execution.” 

“Thank you.” Deadlock paused. “It’s not often I meet a cannibal who isn’t a sadist.” 

Deathsaurus recognized a backhanded compliment and responded in kind. “It’s not often I meet someone with a kill count like yours who isn’t a sadist.” 

“You’re so sure,” Deadlock sneered. After all, his reputation was much scarier if the other Decepticons thought he was a monster too, and the more people feared him, the more they left him alone. 

Deathsaurus’s reply was quiet, not belligerent at all. “Being good at something and loving it are two different things.” 

Deadlock rolled his optics and gave up on trying to provoke Deathsaurus. “This is why nobody likes you.” 

“If you don’t want to hear the truth, stop talking to me.” 

Deadlock put his hands on his hips. “You’re one promotion away from being a fleet commander and you’re _already_ in the Conclave. If you’re going to rub your superiors the wrong way, at least be manipulative about it. I’ve told you that before.” 

Deathsaurus seemed provoked. He stuck up his beak and replied in a passible imitation of Deadlock’s voice: “And your solitude will be the death of you, and I have told you that before as well.” 

Irritated, Deadlock picked up the target’s head and spark chamber and stashed them in his subspace. A moment later, he added the T-cog. 

From this side, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before. Deathsaurus’s left wing was injured, its strut cracked, its feather-blades drooping and tangling with one another. There was no fresh energon. The wound was not that recent. 

“You’re hurt,” Deadlock said. 

“The target and I exchanged shots yesterday.” 

The wound looked very good for a single day’s self-repair. Deadlock felt suspicious. “You’ve been stalking this guy how long?” 

“Two point four days.” 

“And you really aren’t angry that I took your kill.” 

Deathsaurus nudged the corpse. “He was selling secrets about troop movements and vulnerabilities. Some of those troops are mine.” 

Deadlock finally understood why Deathsaurus didn’t want the money or Megatron’s gratitude. Safety for his crew was a higher priority. 

The beast dipped its head again, then paused and looked up at Deadlock, optics glinting. “That’s the answer you get because I like you.” 

“What’s the answer for people you don’t like?” 

“I’ll just say I was hungry. Which...” His beak darted down, grabbed something Deadlock was pretty sure was part of the mech’s spinal strut, ripped it free, and gulped it down whole. “Isn’t a lie.” 

Deadlock made a mental note to watch his back around Deathsaurus. Popular rumour was that the mech had no brain/mouth filter, but Deadlock had just learned better. An incomplete truth could be as deadly as a falsehood. 

Deadlock returned to the original topic to cover up his revelation. “He hurt you, and you’re still not mad I killed him.” 

“He’s paid in full for his slight against me.” Deathsaurus tilted his head and gave Deadlock a bestial smile. “You know, since I like you, you can watch.” 

“Watch.” This was typically an invitation to the most decadent of depravities. Deadlock was so busy watching the corpse, waiting for the upcoming violation, that he almost missed the show. 

Deathsaurus’s wing straightened. Shimmered. Deadlock could see steam rising from the break as the injury superheated. Wing-feathers slid back into their proper alignment. 

“What in the Pit?” Deadlock muttered. 

Whatever was happening was not yet complete. Something extended from the joined wing strut: a long, pendulous ribbon of liquid metal… 

“Scrap me!” Deathsaurus hissed. “Too much!” 

He flared his right wing just in time. A similar fluid growth extended in a position that mirrored that of the left wing. 

Deathsaurus gritted his teeth and dug his talons into the corpse in obvious pain. 

The metal took shape, set, and solidified. Two new feather blades adorned Deathsaurus’s wings. 

“What is that?” Deadlock asked. 

“Sentio metallico.” Deathsaurus relaxed, as though the pain had been only momentary. “I’m a Super MTO.” 

The Super MTO program had been designed to buttress the frames of constructed-cold mechanisms by adding sentio metallico harvested from the dead. It enhanced strength and durability. Part of the durability came from an improved healing factor, yes, but Deadlock had never heard of it working like _that_. 

“Forged mechs are born with sentio metallico and can’t do that.” Deadlock frowned. “Besides, most of the other Super MTOs aren’t cannibals.” 

“Most of the other Super MTOs can’t smelt their own like I can.” Deathsaurus breathed a short puff of fire. “Mad science can get a little… _experimental_. It’s not uncommon to encounter _anomolies_.” 

“So you eat other people to harvest more sentio metallico.” 

“Among other reasons. Energon is rationed, engex is expensive, corpses are plentiful and free for the taking. But let’s be honest. I’m hardwired a predator.” He tilted his head. “That’s why I won’t turn down a cold-constructed meal.” 

“You can’t control how your frame changes.” Deadlock stared at Deathsaurus’s new feathers. “It adds things at random?” 

“I assume the blueprints are encoded in my spark.” 

“It’s _growing_ you.” Deadlock felt a peculiar revulsion. Cybertronians, once they took their finished forms, were not supposed to _grow_. Upgrade, rebuild, reconstruct…of course. But not morphing or growing, not like this. 

Then another thought struck him. The MTOs often suffered from alt mode dysphoria. But if you _grew_ according to the blueprints in your spark… 

…then _that thing_ was Deathsaurus’s true shape. 

No wonder nobody knew what to call Deathsaurus’s other form. Nobody had designed that creature; nobody had planned it. Deathsaurus had just _grown_ that way with every bit of sentio metallico he ate. 

_Monster._

Deadlock wondered what the newly minted Deathsaurus had looked like. 

He knew better than to ask. At best, he’d get another partial truth. More likely, Deathsaurus would simply refuse to answer. Deadlock was surprised that Deathsaurus had admitted as much as he had, and his suspicious mind had an idea as to why. 

“You’re trusting me with this secret of yours.” Deadlock folded his arms. “I could tell Megatron. Tell all of Decepticon High Command.” 

Deathsaurus simply regarded him, and Deadlock realized that this little bit of sharing was a test. Deathsaurus wanted to know if he could trust Deadlock, so he had offered up something that was juicy enough to be of interest. Clearly it was also something Deathsaurus was willing to risk becoming public knowledge. 

“You want to see if I tell or not,” Deadlock challenged. 

“It would have been interesting to find out,” Deathsaurus admitted, realizing that Deadlock was on to his game. 

“I don’t play power games.” Deadlock frowned. “I didn’t think you did, either.” 

“Just running some evaluations. I believe I was told that if I was going to upset people, I should be manipulative about it.” 

“And what can you _evaluate_ now that I’ve figured out your experiment?” 

“Your suspicious nature is such that if Megatron himself offered you peace on a silver platter, you’d turn away from it because you are completely incapable of trusting that anyone could possibly have good or even neutral intentions towards you.” 

Deadlock absolutely hated when Deathsaurus did this—got so far inside your brain that he could dig out something you didn’t know yourself and pull it out for all the world to see. He felt exposed and vulnerable and a little bit frightened. Deadlock never knew what to say in response. 

Well, he wanted to cover his discomfort, so perhaps he should say something implying a combination of obnoxious disrespect and lack of caring. After all, if you were going to rub someone the wrong way, it was best to do it manipulatively. 

“Well, why don’t you hate me for that,” Deadlock sneered as he turned to leave. 

“How can I hate you for it when I’m equally guilty of it?” Deathsaurus murmured, stopping Deadlock in his tracks. 

Deadlock looked back over his shoulder. 

“I’d like to trust in a peace someday,” Deathsaurus continued, “but first I’ll have to build it myself.” 

“So why are you testing me?” Deadlock snapped. 

“Because I can’t build it alone.” 

Finally, Deadlock figured out what Deathsaurus was after. It irritated him to no end the way Deathsaurus _kept doing this_. “Are you trying to adopt me again?” Deadlock demanded. 

Deathsaurus took another mouthful of corpse-guts and chewed slowly. 

“I told you to _stop that_. I’m not one of your little _cultists_ and I’m not looking for a _pal_.” 

Deadlock finally seemed to have hit a nerve. Deathsaurus’s wings flared. The new feather blades were almost the same colour as the others now that they had cooled. “That’s not my _cult_. That’s my _family_.” 

“Listen. I am two million years and change older than you. I was a ranking Decepticon before you came online. I don’t play well with others and…” He laughed. “Do you honestly think that _you_ would take orders from _me_? _I_ ccertainly don’t! If I told you to do something you didn’t want to do, would you listen to me any better than you listen to Megatron?” 

Deathsaurus blinked, startled. “I…” 

“No. You _wouldn’t_. Turbo-revving young punk. You made that offer thinking of yourself as the senior member of the partnership.” Deadlock’s mouth twisted. “You wouldn’t listen to me any more than I would listen to you.” 

The beast was silent. Deadlock chuckled, delighted at finally catching the monster off guard. “You and I, Deathsaurus—you like me because of what we have in common. Speak our minds, take no slag, and, sadly, trust no one. How do you put it? We share an inability to believe that anyone could possibly have good intentions. Another thing we have in common is mutual respect for the other as a threat. If we were in the same unit we would kill each other as a matter of principle long before the Autobots got a chance, and how would that do the Decepticons any good?” 

“You’re right. It would never work.” Deathsaurus chewed thoughtfully. “What a sin. Nothing to be done about it, I suppose.” 

“I’ll give you this—you’re one of the less annoying allies I could find.” 

“A rare compliment.” Deathsaurus spoke with utmost sincerity. 

“Enjoy your dinner. I’ll enjoy getting paid.” Deadlock turned his back and left Deathsaurus to his meal. “So we’re both happy.” 

_Your solitude will be the death of you._

Deadlock tried to forget those words. It would be much nicer to imagine Tarn’s face when Deadlock threw him the target’s T-cog as a consolation prize. 

It wasn’t as though Deathsaurus’s analysis was _correct_ , either. Deadlock thought the reverse was much more likely. 

Deathsaurus’s tendency to adopt all the rejects of society would eventually land him in trouble. Someday Deathsaurus would adopt a bad actor, and that would be the end of him. For all Deathsaurus liked to pretend he was suspicious by nature, the trust he placed in his crew was terrifying. Deadlock could never do it. 

_Must be nice, though. That…what did he call it?_

_Family._

Deathsaurus was also absolutely wrong when he said that Deadlock could not believe anyone might have good intentions towards him. There was precisely one person whom Deadlock trusted in that manner. 

That person was on the other side of the Autobot lines, and their relationship could not be called _friendship_ or _allyship_ or even _acquaintanceship_ , but if nothing else, Deadlock could trust that Ratchet cared about his welfare. 

Perhaps he’d spend the bounty from this kill after all. A classy engex blend as a gift; a glass of high-grade for himself, and a nice meal for two, with jelly candies for dessert. He knew how to run the Autobot lines. He’d show up in the clinic one night when the doc was closing up and be gone by morning. 

The entire Conclave would throw an absolute _fit_ if they found out, but Deathsaurus wasn’t the only mech in Decepticon High Command who didn’t particularly care what other people thought. 

Deadlock knew what he needed to keep holding on through these years of purgatory until the war was won and the Decepticon dream realized. He needed either to find something that made life worth hanging onto, or something that could numb his pain in the present. Deadlock already knew that the second avenue was not good for him. So, he would go with the first. 

He would pay a visit to the mech who proved that Deathsaurus was wrong, knowing all the while that it was his connection to Ratchet—not his solitude—that was more likely to be the death of him. 


End file.
